


like a prayer

by wendlaswound



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Also I’m very proud of The Buff Jesús even though it doesn’t really fit the overall tone?, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Backstory, Character Study, Coming Out, HE'S STILL HALF JEWISH BUT THE CATHOLICISM IS IMPORTANT FOR THIS, Internalized Homophobia, I’ll probably revise this later, I’m sort of really proud of this, M/M, catholic whizzer, i still think it works lol correct me if i’m Wrong, lot's of religious allusions lol sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 12:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14261499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendlaswound/pseuds/wendlaswound
Summary: Whizzer doesn't know if falling in love will bring him salvation or damnation. And he doesn't know if he would care for either.





	like a prayer

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I am obviously not Jewish, so if I made any mistakes /please/ let me know so I can fix them. Secondly, I feel like Whizzer's backstory/character development is often ignored in favor of Marvin's, and I probably failed miserably, but I wanted to try my take on that. Of course, this Whizzer isn’t really canon, it’s more of a headcanon, but I was just itching to write SOMETHING. Idk. I went to church this morning and I couldn't stop thinking about this.  
> Special thanks to Call_Me_Tears for correcting the Jewish details in this.

            Whizzer was half Jewish, but it had been the Catholic Church that raised him. He did not see his baptism as the blessing he was told he should believe it to be. Quite simply, the majority of his life had consisted of people telling him to believe in things that he didn’t.

            He would have been content with observing the casual Judaism of his father; he attended temple when he felt he should, he always lit the Hanukkah menorah (though Whizzer suspected he went Full Force Jew on Hanukkah to spite his mother’s Christmas tree and obnoxious snowmen decorations), and most important to Whizzer, he never forced him to go along with it. Whizzer had a Bar Mitzvah, had attended Hebrew school leading up to it, and had accompanied his father on serval (albeit, rare) occasions. And he never loved it, but never hated it. And in retrospect, he had quite an appreciation for those early years.

But soon after he was seen as a man in the eyes of his father’s family, his mother ruled that that was _good enough_ and now it was her turn to lead him to true salvation. She wasn’t all that observant either, and Whizzer knew for certain that she never _actually_ gave up chocolate for Lent. She attended church _most of the time_ and only invoked God’s name when it would win her an argument. Over the years, it rarely did.

            And after all this time, rather than reaching out to heaven, Whizzer had only grown closer to hell.

* * *

 

            Whizzer had known he was gay since he was about twelve, and had become certain of the fact when he mother began taking him to church when he was thirteen. The Catholic church three blocks away from their house was all stone and mortar, but was well-fit and cozy. Steeple and all, Whizzer had felt the wonder of the kaleidoscopic stained glass, the tang of incense. And those first few Sundays he’d felt welcome.

            How Whizzer saw it, it was Jesus’s fault that he was gay.

            Despite the cloistered aesthetic of the house of worship, the aura was lost with The Buff Jesus who hung on the cross above the altar. The Buff Jesus had a six-pack, pecs harder than the golden pedestal the tabernacle was seated on, and a stern face of unmatched heavenly triumph.

            As a thirteen-year-old boy on the brink of his sexual awakening, it was certainly not the sermon that captivated his attention for an hour each Sunday morning.

            It was definitely a sin, having sexual fantasies about the Lord and Savior, but it wasn’t Whizzer’s fault they didn’t pick a statue that was more historically accurate. But that put him over the edge. Against all the hell-speech, the confessionals, the cute choir boys, the sacrificial fear, Whizzer put himself on a self-professed quest of self-discovery. His search history was cleared on a regular basis. Once he’d determined that _yeah, this kind of makes sense_ he became haggered, possessed and terrified of the thought of what would happen if he came out. He had nightmares about pyres and burning and drowning in holy water.

            But he couldn’t erase his thoughts, the spinning feelings in his head and stomach and knees, though he tried. He wrote off the idea that he was really another _damned homosexual_ with crazy puberty hormones. It would go away soon, and he’d get a girlfriend, and…

            Though he exhausted himself trying to reroute his image, he never got much farther than that.

            For show and out of fear, Whizzer became the perfect little Catholic boy. He went to religion class every Wednesday without complaint, each Sunday service he wore his best pants and a non-offensive shirt. Of course, it was all because he didn’t want to refuse and be questioned, and then have to explain himself.

            And he couldn’t do that. One, because he was terrified, and two, because he didn’t know the right words.

            The one ‘perfect little Catholic boy’ initiation he managed to avoid was being an altar boy. That would have been even more perfect, the closeted gay altar boy, keeping up the sparkling image of the Holy Church. No, his mother had never asked him if he wanted to do it, so he never did. Though as he got older he kept his eye on the pretty ones. They were better than The Buff Jesus, if nothing else. And it felt slightly less sacrilegious. 

            His Wednesday night classes had two boys he knew from his school, and one was truly _the perfect little Catholic boy_ , altar server and all. He was the star, the one the priests and all the catechists heaved their hopes on for another priest, the next bishop of the diocese, the _Pope._

            Every church had some kid like that.

            They knew more _of_ each other than actually _knowing_ each other, but with class and mass every week after _fucking_ week, they’d formed a vague camaraderie through sheepish glances and their exclusive competency in answering the dumbest questions in class that no one else would.

            “Today is Mary’s feast day, our Immaculate Mother… can anyone tell me what we call today?”

            “…”

            “…Whizzer?”

            Sigh. “The feast day of the Immaculate Conception.”

            “Wonderful!”

            Seriously, he’d only started attending church two years ago, and he was one of the most knowledgeable there? Bullshit. The new generations of Catholics were all idiots, as far as he was concerned. At least in Hebrew school he _learned_ something.

            The other boy gave him a wink after that one, though, and Whizzer bit hard on his lip and tried his best to ignore the heat creeping through his body.

            One night after class, he’d gone to the bathroom to wash his hands. The boy was there. They stood together in the line of sinks, aware of each other’s presence but too stubborn to acknowledge it. Whizzer turned off the weak stream of water, flicked some off of his hands because there were no more paper towels, and hovered for a moment, aware that to the left of him there were two more hands held out the same.

            In unison, they turned so that they could only see each other out of the corner of their eyes. One magnetic, desperate moment drew them together, the tingle of sinful electrically charged air in the space between them, and they reached out, stumbling into a stall with their arms sloppily tied around the other.

            That had been Whizzer’s first kiss… first _anything_. In a grimy stall of his church’s bathroom with an altar boy.

            And yet, the most ironic thing about it was that their class had gotten the whole chastity talk minutes before.

            Whizzer never spoke to the boy again, and the glances between them grew numb and then frosty. The boy had graduated early and gone off to the seminary.

            Good for him. Whizzer was glad to be a stepping stone in his spiritual mission, and now he’d have loads of sermons on the temptations of sex and the repulsiveness of homosexuality and _yes, it can be overcome_.

            It was a hollow sort of pain, the nostalgia that set in whenever Whizzer thought of that first kiss.

            And it had been his only kiss. There weren’t many options in his small town. And it wasn’t like he had many friends to adventure away with, either.

He was always told that he couldn’t truly share God’s love with someone else until he loved himself. Maybe that applied to friendship, too.

            So Whizzer studied, went to church, obsessed over hell and its fires, hid pieces of himself in cracks in the pavement, a not loud enough whisper, confiding in the strip of red in the sky before the sun sinks completely. Losing each bit of himself was a relief and a new wound, and he often expected to look down at his skin and see scars in patterns of the holy cross and fallen stars. He became reclusive, but it wasn’t like there was anyone to call him out on it.

            He became lonely. He was told God was the cure to all loneliness, to all suffering, and he sat awake and prayed until morning, aching for any kind of affirmation. None ever came. He chose Peter as his confirmation name, hoping the spirit of Jesus’s close friend, his companion, his traitor, would encourage God to drop him a word, a moment of peace, _anything._ He would have taken anything at that point.

            By the time he was seventeen, Whizzer had determined that it was all bullshit, all of it, but still he didn’t complain. He couldn’t. He was still paralyzed by the thought of being cast away. In all the Bible readings, the one who was cast away or stoned was always welcomed back into the Lord’s home, but when that was matched with sermons on how this new “Same-Sex marriage law” was a mirror of the immorality of the Nazi regime, that it was a disgusting stain on the societal conscious, he couldn’t see himself as one of the reclaimed.

            Whizzer turned eighteen in May, one of the latest birthdays in his class, but he was one month out from graduating. One month, and then he could escape the city limits, the moral limits, the cloud of disapproval that threatened a downpour whenever he toed the boundary lines.

            At that point, he couldn’t see a way out of it. It was come out now, or lie to himself forever. Bring home a pretty blonde girl from college, put a ring on her finger, and become united and miserable in holy matrimony. It all flashed through his mind like how your last seconds blur before you think you’re going to die.

            He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_.

            And so Whizzer came out to his parents the week before he graduated.

* * *

 

            The words stuck in his throat like the Act of Contrition. _I believe in one God_ , he was supposed to say, when the only sounds he could muster were mushy vowels, afraid he would be speaking too loudly if he actually said the words. His throat constricted, so either he’d scream the prayer like a cry for help, or it would be an illiterate whisper.

            But this time there was not a thousand other people chanting over him. This time he would not be understood if he did not say the words clearly, or maybe even if he did.

            Whizzer cleared his throat and looked away from his parents. “I’m gay.”

            In the brief seconds of silence, Whizzer felt each lash Jesus bore before he was crucified. In that silence, he heard every taunt, felt _King of the Jews_ sting his scalp as a crown was thrust onto his head. His parents' blank looks were a cross set before him.

            “You’re… _what_?” his mother asked, aghast, her hands fluttering up to cover her face. His father sat there, unresponsive, but at least he didn’t look angry.

            Whizzer only managed to give her the smallest nod in confirmation.

            “But… but I took you to church!” she cried, her hands wrapped around her face like a poor imitation of _The Scream_.

            Flashes of The Buff Jesus and the altar boy in the bathroom stall played across Whizzer’s memory. “Yeah, that didn’t really… _help._ ”

            “I just… I can’t believe… you,” sobs broke up her words and she collapsed. Whizzer flinched, wanting to reach out but certain that that would only make things worse. Finally, his father stood and took him by the shoulders.

            While the action was comforting, the words he said were not.

            “I think you should go for a while.”

            Whizzer was too stunned to say anything, though he wanted to shout, to lash out, to protest and fight for his right to _exist_ wherever he damn well pleased.

            Instead, he tilted his chin just slightly, turned away and slammed the door. He hopped onto his bike and made it half a block before he began to cry.

* * *

 

            It was and wasn’t a coincidence that Whizzer ended up at church. He could barely see anymore, and even just the blurry outline of a familiar place was comforting, just the slightest. A deep sigh fell from his chest and pushed out another stream of tears as he threw his bike on the rack and climbed the uneven steps.

            An empty church is one of the eeriest places to be alone and _feeling_ so strongly, because it’s as if you don’t exist, as if nothing does, the invisible breaths of the saints charging the air, waiting for miracles.

            But Whizzer didn’t believe any of that.

            Or so he’d thought. But he’d never been in an empty church before.

            _Isn’t there supposed to be a priest around?_ he asked himself, warily stepping down the aisle as if a squeaky floorboard might alert the demons beneath it to rise up and swallow him whole.

            He might have preferred that to going home.

            Despite his dismissal of everything the chapel stood for, he could understand briefly why it was sought for solace. The tears had stopped flowing and he could swallow whole breaths without any hiccupping sobs.

            For the first time in a long time, with the warm light from the stained-glass windows painting him in a silhouette of translucent hues, Whizzer felt a small bit of his chest settle.

            _Is this peace?_ The question slipped into his mind before he could bat it away. He didn’t know, but it was better than what he had moments before.

            He found himself seated in the middle of the third pew from the front. As he was the only congregation member present, he had a direct view of The Buff Jesus. Though, Jesus merely continued to stare up into the heavens, unaware of Whizzer’s attention.

            “Are you going to give me the cold shoulder too, now? Now that I’m a self-proclaimed abomination?” he asked teasingly, though it wasn’t without a weight of sincerity.

            “Don’t worry, I’m not going to start sleeping on the floor and ruining your alone time. I’ll go home… eventually.”

            The Buff Jesus still gave no response. Whizzer breathed heavily, frustrated and angry and choking back sobs as all his joking bravo faded away. He hunched forward, debating whether he should put down the kneeler and actually _pray_ pray.

            After a moment he shook his head. No. This was a _conversation_ , if anything. Even if he was only talking to himself.

            “Look…bud,” he began, uncertain of how one addresses Jesus in these kind of situations, especially when he’s quite so muscular.

            “It’s been years. _Years._ I’ve been as faithful as I could be, I’ve done everything, and… _why?_  Just fucking _why?_ I don’t think being… gay is bad, or sinful, and if you do, then we’re going to have to agree to disagree to get through this. But honestly, _why_ am I like this if it’s so terrible? What have I done? I’ve tried listening, I’ve tried reaching out. But I just… I _don’t hear_ anything. I just don’t. Maybe we have a bad cell signal, I don’t know,” he joked again, but as the silence settled he became embarrassed with himself. After a moment, he decided there was nothing else he could do; he moved on, hoping Jesus would forgive his awkwardness.

            “Anyway. I hate myself for doing this again and again and _again_ even though I know it won’t get me anywhere. But _please_. I just need something. _Anything._ ” One word, and it was the most sincere, desperate prayer Whizzer had ever given. Nights of fitful, tearful confusion faded away. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, his hands locked together, and whispered it again. _“Anything.”_

            Whizzer didn’t know how long he stayed that way, but when he rose his head the church was flooded with gold. It was the color of the happiness of being greeted with warm air after shivering, awakening content and rested, of rebirth.

            Well, he didn’t feel much different. But it was a nice color. Prettier than the choir boys Whizzer had admired from the same seat.

            He waved to The Buff Jesus as he left, not expecting a response and not receiving one. Just as well. He still didn’t know if it was a good time to return home, but he reasoned that he’d figure it out as he went. Slightly excited by this indetermination, this _possibility_ , Whizzer took the steps two at a time, staring at his feet so he wouldn’t miss one of the thin ledges.

            And as he was having such a wonderful day to begin with, this misdirected attention caused him to collide with another boy walking on the sidewalk below. “Oh, shit!” Whizzer shouted upon contact, unable to slow his momentum.

            They fell in a tumble, pouring out into the street, but luckily it was deserted. The boy had been toting his bike, which made for a bigger, more painful tangle. Whizzer worked his way out of it first, then held out his hand to help the other. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” he wheezed as he was met with a firm grip.

            “Really, I’m such a dumbass, and-“

            Whizzer tried to continue, he really did, but by then the boy had stood and Whizzer couldn’t speak anymore.

            The boy’s cheeks were cherry red and round, cherubic and warm. His eyes were the purest blue Whizzer had ever seen, shining even brighter in the golden light. Soft amber curls fell every which way across his forehead, a halo of light dancing across them as they were still falling back into place. With his hand in Whizzer’s, Whizzer had never felt more grounded, or more like he could float away.

            He was an angel if Whizzer ever saw one. Salvation incarnate. The work of God’s heavenly hands.

            Whizzer’s sight fell slightly from the boy’s eyes.

Those _lips_. They were currently cocking themselves into a small grin to reply to Whizzer’s dumb stuttering, and Whizzer didn’t know if he was still alive.

            There was nothing holy about those lips.

            “It’s bad luck, you know.”

            “I-I’m sorry?” Whizzer asked, snapping out of his daze as the boy pulled his hand away. Much to Whizzer’s regret.

            “It’s bad luck to swear around a church. Or say anything, for that matter,” he explained, gathering up his bike. “At least, that’s what my grandma says. Better to say nothing, because then there’s nothing to damn you for.”

            The boy’s lips had spread into a full smile now, and it was more radiant than any sunset, more precious than any miracle. Whizzer tried to match it, but he knew he was sporting a goofy grin if anything.

            “Well, that’s something your grandma and I can agree on.”

            The boy held out his hand. Whizzer took it gladly. “I’m Marvin.”

            “I’m Whizzer, and I’m sorry I just rammed into you like that. Really, I-“

            “Hey, don’t worry about it,” Marvin chuckled. Whizzer hoped to die and go to heaven and hear the angelic chorus mimic that very noise. Otherwise, how heavenly could it be? “We all get caught up in our thoughts sometimes.”

            That should have been where the encounter ended, after Whizzer grabbed his own bike and went back up the hill, back home, or farther. But Marvin followed on the same path. Neither mounted their bikes, just led it beside them. After a minute of this unsure silence, Marvin let out the slightest breath that could have been a laugh, though Whizzer wasn’t sure. He copied it, nevertheless.

            It could have been a sudden burst of courage, or it could have been the hand of God, he didn’t know or really care at that moment. But he said the words soft like a prayer, and none got stuck in his throat or left a poor taste on his tongue.

            “You know, I was just looking for a miracle.”

            Marvin appraised him curiously, his lips still crooked and his gaze slanted. “And did you find it?”

            “Yeah. I think I did.”


End file.
